I eff-ing love the train.
New Year’s Eve day, and I’m on Amtrak’s Missouri River Runner from Kansas City to Saint Louis.
I get my coffee, claim a seat near the front of the first car, and settle in to watch the world go by.
I’ve brought work to do and articles to catch up on.
But I’ll ignore those.
On the train, you just veg.
Which is why I love it.
Pulling out of Union Station, I see a tangle of graffiti on the underside of an overpass.
Which is something I usually ignore.
But, this time, maybe because I’m in a Zen state of mind, I take notice.
The color. The detail. The esoteric nature of some of the messages.
“Live Fast And Eat Ass,” for example.
Indeed.
And simple statements from people who just want to leave their mark and be remembered by someone . . . anyone.
“Pip was here.”
“Fitz was here.”
“Lutz was here.”
I see you, Pip. I’m with you, Fitz. Right on, Lutz.
Also featured are political statements, especially concerning the forty-fifth President.
And I gather from those statements the graffiti art community does not lean Republican.
Perhaps most striking is the aesthetic quality of some of the work.
Approaching Independence station, I see an incredible nude, captured in the spirit of a World War II-era pin-up.
The woman’s proportions are generous, for certain.
But, more noteworthy is the piece’s general composition, realism, color palette, use of light and shadows, and intricate shading.
And, incredibly, the artist has done a brilliant job of putting just enough expression on the subject’s face as to make the observer suspicious of the woman’s thoughts and intentions.
She has a look that’s equal parts disinterest and seduction.
Da Vinci, composer of The Mona Lisa, would have been impressed.
I certainly am.
And it makes me wonder how graffiti artists work.
And what motivates them to employ shady overpasses and the sides of abandoned buildings to stage their work.
I mean, think about it.
Graffiti is illegal, pretty much everywhere.
The artist has to trespass just to get to his canvas.
Yes, I know graffiti is “protest” art. And the illegal nature of it is, in itself, a form of protest.
But I’m thinking more practically here.
Let’s say I want to compose something on the order of the pin-up girl outside Independence.
I probably have to do it at night to enjoy the cover of darkness.
I have to traverse some distance from my car or bus stop or wherever to get to my square of blank concrete.
I have to lug my cans of spray paint the same distance.
And I might have to jump some fences or take evasive action to avoid whatever dogs, racoons, or possums are in the area.
And I have to figure out how to light my work space – enough so I can see, but not so much that it draws attention.
All that before I even get started.
Then, I have to keep painting until the work is finished. How long is that?
I mean, do graffiti artists limit themselves to pieces that can be completed in only one night to avoid getting caught? Or mugged?
If they do, hats off to the Naked Lady Painter of Independence.
He needs to step out of the shadows and take a bow.
It would take me a month to do the same thing, even without the dogs and racoons and possums.
Assuming I could spray paint.
And if I’m out all night spray painting, do I still have to go work in the morning?
Or, do I only paint on weekends so I can sleep in?
And where do I work? What sort of career affords me the flexibility I need to be a proper graffiti artist?
And when the composition is complete, would I occasionally go back to admire it?
The purpose of art is to please the artist, after all.
Does the clandestine nature of graffiti art preclude that?
Or, would I take pictures and post them on Instagram
And risk getting busted as a result?
Shit!
So many questions.
Graffiti has been around since antiquity. And I don’t know the first damn thing about it.
So, I drink my coffee.
I stare out the window.
I ponder.
Eventually, the city gives way to woods and farmland.
The graffiti gives way to grazing cows.
And I realize I’m better off for my new-found appreciation of graffiti.
It slows things down.
And that’s good.
Because, as Ferris Bueller said, “Life moves pretty fast.”
I’ll be watching out for it from now on.
Whenever I’m on the train.
Or somehow lost in a bad neighborhood.
In the meantime,
Live Fast And Eat Ass, my friends.
And best wishes for an inspiring New Year.